


grasp

by biceps



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Other, Seduction, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 04:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12004668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biceps/pseuds/biceps
Summary: Lavellan follows through with their promises. Eventually.





	grasp

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on this on and off for about a month because my varric thirst is killing me, but i can't ever get his character right :/ it was so difficult to keep this pg. i'm not ENTIRELY happy with it, but i told myself i'd stop leaving things unfinished, so here it is! hope you enjoy :D
> 
> unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.

It’s a chilly day on the Exalted Plains and Varric feels icy just looking at the Inquisitor’s toes, peeking out of the bands they meticulously wrapped around their feet. There’s no way they don’t feel the bite, but Varric had also watched them trudge through the Emprise for miles with just the same bands, so he keeps his mouth shut. They knew what they were doing, he supposes.

He's been zoning in and out for a bit, though he is making a definite effort to try and follow the conversation. He knows some elvhen, but only choice phrases he’d learned from Merrill and things he caught onto from following the Inquisitor and Solas around. He knows for sure that they would be glad to teach him, but he’s just never gotten around to it. Regardless, he thinks he’s doing alright; he thinks he hears something about hunting.

The inquisitor laughs, a sharp sound, biting into his thoughts, not unlike the cold. Varric is pulled back into his body, listening intently as the foreign words and phrases fall from their lips.

Inquisitor Lavellan had a rough voice; not unkind, not in the least, but coarse and deep, measured in a way that only they could pull off. Their accent, to Varric’s chagrin (and maybe to his joy, not that he’d ever admit it), reminded him of some Orzammar dwarves, and it stood out especially when they conversed with the Dalish. The way they spoke their language was so much different from Lavellan. Whether it was dialect or him purposefully nitpicking every detail of their speech, he wasn’t sure.

Varric sighs. He feels a little less chilled and tries not to think about it.

“The snoufleur herd moved just north of us,” Lavellan declares, breaking away from the dalish hunters. “Near Var Bellanaris.”

“Wonderful.” Vivienne hums. “Let us pray we defeated most of the demons residing there.”

“Do not worry, my friend. We are all very thorough,” Varric feels the telltale burn of a pair of eyes heating his cheek, and he glances to meet Lavellan’s gaze. “Myself most of all.”

A grin pulls at his mouth. “We expect nothing less from you, your Inquisitorialness.”

They smile back at him and the corners of their eyes crinkle; from an outsider’s perspective, the pair look as though they’re sharing in a strange inside joke, but Varric catches the predatory shine in their dark eyes and a shiver dashes down his spine.

(He remembers feeling a featherlight touch on his shoulder, his senses dulled only slightly by the whiskey, not enough to blame his impulses on too many drinks. He remembers turning his head to the owner of the touch, the pair of dark eyes, lips curled into a charming, flirtatious smile. He doesn’t remember what is whispered to him; though the timbre of the voice, the heavy promise hidden in the sound, and the sharp arousal he feels from hearing it remains fresh in his mind.)

Varric eyes Lavellan’s left hand, clad in a lightweight gauntlet. Their hands are thick and calloused from years of swinging enormous weapons above their head, the fingernails cut short; a choice detail that Varric chooses to ignore from time to time.

“So, Snapdragon,” He calls to their brave leader, attempting to match the stride of their long legs. They incline their head to show that they’re listening and Varric catches the tiny smile that appears whenever he uses the nickname. Pride swells in his chest. “Are you going to have enough leather to sate your obsession after this, or should I prepare myself for sleeping in a tent for another week?”

Their laugh is a little lighter this time. “Not sure. I’ll definitely buy you the finest, thickest blankets next time I’m in Val Royeaux to make up for it, though.”

“Aw, shucks.” Varric rubs the back of his neck. “The last thing my bed needs is more blankets, but I’ve never been one to turn down a good bribe.”

They look at him again for just a moment, out of the corner of their eye. He looks back, unsure if he’s challenging or submitting, or if choosing one even matters to him. The silence between them – usually very comfortable – was almost deafening. He feels the breeze on his bare chest.

Varric steps on the wrong edge of a rock and stumbles. Lavellan – infuriatingly kind and selfless Lavellan – winds their hand around his arm, pulling him flush against their side. “Careful,” They murmur, more teasing than anything. Their hand pats his shoulder heavily, lingering for much longer than usual; the touch makes his shoulder burn with familiarity.

He mutters a ‘thanks’ that he believes sounds normal and not frustrated to hell and back. He knows Lavellan knows that they’re being unfair, and _he_ knows that he shouldn’t be so ornery over it; the time has never been right, they’re both incredibly busy people, it’s to be expected. He’s done this before. He could handle it then, he can handle it now.

Just not when they’re being so goddamn _coy_ about it.

“So what does ‘Var Bellanaris’ mean?” Varric asks, finally exhausted with the silence.

“Var Bellanaris,” The title slips from Lavellan’s lips like honey. “’Our Eternity’. Fitting for a burial site, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” His voice sounds distant, like it doesn’t belong to him. The breeze feels icy hot on his chest now.

“I recall you being with me when Keeper Hawen tasked us with clearing the area of demons,” Their lips curled into a smirk reminiscent of something devious. “Did he not explain the meaning of Var Bellanaris then, too?” Ah. The cat that caught the canary.

Varric licks his chapped lips and returns the smirk. “Did he? I didn’t catch it then. I’ll have to pay better attention next time.”

(A mouth, just barely ghosting over his cheekbone; a trail of well-placed kisses blazing fire down to his jaw. A sharp intake of breath; the hand on his shoulder rubbing lazy circles with the thumb. Lips following an invisible path down to his throat, head careening back to accommodate them, a weak sound permeating the air. Another promise, whispered against his cheek, the words spilling over him like molten gold; impossibly hot. _Soon._ Free hand grasping his own, palm cool, he squeezes recklessly.)

Blackwall says something to Lavellan and they laugh; a booming sound that startles several gulls into flight and Varric out of his memory. They are halfway to the burial site, now ( _Our Eternity_ , he reminds himself, smirking dryly), and the shelter of the imposing rock formations shield them from the wind chill.

An awful lot of trouble for a couple snoufleur hides, he muses, but Lavellan was always intent on doing things how they wanted.

Thankfully for them (not so much the herd), Lavellan skins two snoufleur and is satisfied enough with the winnings to make the trip back to Skyhold. About time, too, Varric muses irritably - the doom and gloom of the Plains was bad enough, and sexual frustration made it forty times worse (it technically made everything forty times worse, no matter where you were, but at least he had the privacy of his living quarters at Skyhold).

The fortress also had the luxury of being large enough that you might not see someone for days if you weren’t looking for them. Though Varric, depending on his mood, might prefer to call it a defect.

It is almost a week before he can speak to Lavellan again. Between the Merchant’s Guild, persistent advisors, excitable friends, and talkative nobles, he has only glimpses of them – mouth forming words that he cannot hear. When they do lock eyes with him, they can only send a friendly wave, with a look in their eyes that conveys too much for a single glance. When they sit next to him at his designated fireplace, they eagerly ask about the manuscript he has laying before him as if they hadn’t spoken to him in years and lean in much too close for someone who was supposed to be (just) a friend. Close enough that he can feel their breath on his cheek, watch as their Adam’s apple bobs when they swallow, the glint of white teeth when they smile.

They are utterly charming, he realizes for the hundredth time. Though naturally closed off and guarded towards strangers, the Inquisitor was adept at manipulating conversations and people to get what they wanted – not so with him. That detail he noticed only a short time ago, in a moment of raw emotion, where they voiced that they wanted him in the low light of the Herald’s Rest – quiet, so no one else would hear. It warms his body with something other than arousal.

Varric tunes out every other sound in the hall until his head is full of nothing but Lavellan’s rich voice, drinking in how light and gentle they sound.

Their hand is upon his shoulder, stroking his bicep reverently when they pop the question. They purr his name, and he doesn’t have it in him to hide the shudder that courses through his body. Their eyes glow warmly in the firelight, the early signs of crow’s feet framing their expression.

“Is ‘now’ too soon?”

Varric grasps their hand with his own, running his thumb along their palm when they curl their fingers around him. “Snapdragon,” He says hoarsely, just above a whisper meant only for them. “If you make me wait any longer, I think I’ll go insane.”

Lavellan laughs for him, warm and alluring and heavy with promise, as they pull him to his feet and guide him to their quarters.


End file.
